Page 25 of Ruled By Rivalry

Finally, dimples. “God, I hope not.”

And I couldn’t deal with it. Him. The way he was looking at me and what it was doing to me. I was so angry I could scream. “Last night was a stupid idea.”

“Was it?”

It just burst out of me. “We shouldn’t be friends, and there will always be animosity between us. You’re trying to steal my job!”

“Why did you ask me out, then?”

“I didn’t—” I cut myself off with a groan when I realized I’d given him the exact reaction he’d hoped for. “Lapse in judgment.”

I couldn’t even gloat about the paparazzi plan because it hadn’t worked.

“Right.” Elliot nodded, unconvinced. “I sure hope you don’t have any more of those lapses, Maeve. We’ll be working together much closer from now on.”

And with those words, he disappeared into Oliver’s office, leaving me standing in the hall, with a view onto Camila’s desk. With everything going on, I’d forgotten to get my list of archive preselections from last night to her, and the pile of tulle on her table let me know she’d gotten to it herself already.

So much for being better.

Peterson 0; Ashwood 3.

Chapter 10

Someone was trying to get into my apartment.

Even if I wasn’t paying for it, I’d expect Ashwood to provide me with a safe intern accommodation. In a safe area, with a secure lock.

Eyes wide, breath shallow, I stared at the ceiling of my bedroom and considered my options. At twelve minutes past midnight, the lock had started rattling. Very faintly, I heard deep, gruff muttering through the walls separating me from the soon-to-be intruder.

I could hide, but I had nowhere near enough time to find a good spot without risking detection. Below the covers wasn’t going to cut it when my life was on the line.

I sat up, squinted into the darkness in hopes of finding a weapon lying around somewhere. For the first time, I cursed myself for not being more . . . messy, I suppose? If I had been, there might have been a rogue plate or butter knife on my bedside table. Or, at the very least, just more weaponry to choose from.

“Fuck!” came through the walls. The lock rattled harder.

My eyes shot to the flowers on my dresser. The glass vase would break on impact to do some more damage in the process, and the sound of the front door creaking open made the choice for me; I jumped off my bed as silently as I could, heartbeat louder than my steps as I tiptoed toward my lifeline.

I dumped the flowers onto the dresser, the water into the nearest potted plant, and braced for whatever would await me behind that door.

There was no time to panic and lose my shit.

Fuck. Everyone knew New York wasn’t the safest city to live in, but I hadn’t expected an attempted (or, I guessed, successful?) break-in within a month of my move. My hands shook as I raised the vase above my head, slowly turning the doorknob, then glanced through the crack.

The only light came from the stairwell outside, so all I could see was a shadow of a man. In my apartment. Tall, broad shoulders, hoodie, back turned. Still muttering under his breath.

Not the most effective tactic for a burglar. Or serial killer.

But this was probably my only chance. While he was still distracted, unaware of the woman whose apartment he’d just broken into right behind him. I raised my weapon an inch higher, took a single step farther into my hallway . . .

The lights turned on. I panicked. Because now he could see me and easily overpower me, and whatever advantage I’d previously had, I lost. So, I ran. Toward him, vase high in the air, with some sort of battle cry making it out of my throat halfway there.

But the vase never made impact. Not with the back of his head, not with his forehead. Instead, he turned and his hand curled around my arm, and—

“Elliot?!” I wasn’t sure whether that was surprise or relief or more anger making its way to the surface. Whether my heart pounding was louder than my ragged breaths. But I lowered my weapon, and his hand around my wrist followed.

“What the fuck?” Blue eyes wider than normal—at least I’d been able to shock him out of his nonchalance for once. “Were you about to beat me with a . . . vase?”

“You’re breaking into my apartment!” I screeched, finally identifying that emotion from earlier: Anger. Red-hot fury. “I think that qualifies for some vase beating.”